Sunday, 30 December 2012

Melinda Rizzo's And They Came started off the week, here at Poetry24, with a reminder that dogs really are our best friends.
Peter Flint analysed Christmas and it's various guises in The Many Faces of Christmas while David Mellor pointed out that The World Doesn't Sparkle.
The editors sincerely hope that the readership have all had a good time over the last week. In New Zealand we had a sunny and warm Christmas Day, which was as unexpected as it was welcomed. We relaxed with our families and had some glorious food and a glass or two of fine wine. We hope you all managed to get a space for some happiness and warmth.

Friday, 28 December 2012

Today we put current news on hold in order to publish a Review of the Year which has been assembled by one of our most loyal and regular contributors, Antony Baverstock. Thank you, Antony. We would like to wish you and all our readers a happy and prosperous 2013.Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Christmas has many faces. First the avaricious smirk of commercetoy shops, supermarkets, the internet,suspicious buy one get one free bonhomiebegins months before the turning of the year.Next, the stern features of duty, cards, cooking, parties, presents,inspiration, invitation, perspiration.Then the flickering face of friendship.The warming worth of lasting communion.Guilty ghosts of folk fast fading into oblivion,the commanding countenance of conformity,rituals of observance and obligation.The grinning mask of Dickensian mythology,trees and trimmings, mistletoe and mince pies,smiling Saint Nicholas beam of benevolence,santas, sledges, stockings.The glowing visage of giving and caring,the ruddy, bellowing laughter of revelry,golden serenity of holiness and sacrifice.All turned to immutable truth and hopeOf life's renewal and rebirth.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

In a week when the news has been dominated by the Sandy Hook shootings and their aftermath I approach the writing of my first Sunday review with some trepidation. Like the narrative voice in Imelda Maguire's poem of yesterday, I find myself 'seeking sharp phrases' and 'clever turns' but I am, nonetheless, humbled by the dignity of those who have suffered and, at the same time, all too painfully aware that my life continues unaffected by these terrible tragedies. For the moment, at least, I am untouched, comfortable, safe and secure. This being the case, I propose to say no more. Readers of Poetry 24 this week will already know that the poetry speaks more profoundly than I could ever do here.On Monday, in 'Old News' , Linda Cosgriff reminded us that 'Death is an itch some must scratch' on both sides of the Atlantic while, on Tuesday, Eamon Ó Cléírigh 's deeply moving 'Unheard' spoke powerfully of the shock and grief now being felt by a small and close community in Ireland. On Wednesday, we took the unusual step of publishing two poems simultaneously: Joy France's 'Cut Back Christmas' and AfricMcGlinchy's 'Death of America's Christmas' We made this decision because we felt strongly that, despite being very different from each other, both these pieces deserved to be published. We were aware that we were 'running out of time' before 'the end of the world' and, with a wealth of strong material to hand, we decided to bend the rules.To make matters worse, though, we had already scheduled another poem by Afric, 'Mayan Finale', for Friday so that meant we had to break another rule, this time the one about one poem per author per week. Never mind, I am of the opinion that any set of rules should be thrown out of the window occasionally and, anyway, I would rather break a dozen of them than disappoint a single author who has submitted a strong piece of work. Accordingly, Wynne Huddlestone's poem, 'End of the World, or a New World Age?', also appeared on Friday. Once again, we could not decide so, in the end, we published both. On behalf on myself and the rest of the editorial team, past and present, I would like to wish all our readers a warm and wonderful winter holiday season and peaceful and prosperous New Year. We will continue to publish, although probably less regularly, over the festive period.Finally, in keeping with our established practice of occasionally including an obituary with the Sunday Review, here are some lines to remind us of the contribution of a man who perhaps did more than any other musician of his generation to expand the horizons of popular music in the West.Ravi Shankar A sitar may have twenty three strings

in sprays of reckless spittle;

mountains topped with seers

and mass suicides, mosaics

of blood across cracked cheeks,

while thirteen crows line up along

a cemetery wall, and watch

the ticking clock.

A Hennessy Poetry winner and Pushcart nominee, Afric McGlinchey’s début collection, The lucky star of hidden things,was published in 2012 by Salmon.Afric lives in West Cork. www.africmcglinchey.com

End of the World, or a New World AgePeople everywhere are scurrying in fearas the date draws near to 12/21/2012—the endof the Mayans’ calendar; the stage set for doom:World War, Apocalypse, Enlightenment, or peaceand a New World Age. Some Christians, too,believe, perhaps, Revelations is coming to pass;after all, the perfect number in the Bible is 12—

the Trinity multiplied by the four earthly elementsof water, air, earth and fire; there were 12 Disciples,12 seals, and 12 heavenly gates (star gates?)named for 12 tribes, guarded by 12 angels. Mediaheightens the hysteria with themes of Armageddon,Apocalyptic horrors, and theories of ancientaliens. All cultures, religions and nations seemto be drawing together, for once, in the beliefthat the end of the age is upon us… but how

will it end? Will a sun flare set the world on fire,or will a comet or Hubris knock Earth off its axis?Will magnetic poles shift; will our last daysbe spent in darkness? Will we blow upthe world with the H-bomb we designed to protectourselves? Will Jesus, Osiris-Dionysus, Vishnu, Ra,and Buddha sit and argue about which one should

save us? Or will they just watch in judgmentas the world shrinks into a hot core, coveringus in gas and ash, burning us alive; or whilethe world is beaten into bits like wadded up foil,trash floating away to join other space

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Cut Back ChristmasCut Back Christmas is totally crap,I’ve hardly got any gifts to wrapI’m using newspaper string and scissors.Christmas dinner is turkey twizzlers.After, we might all share a mince pieWith some Vimto instead of fine wine.I’ve got Pound Shop crackers that won’t crack,No hats or toys, just jokes that fall flat.It’s austerity round at my houseCos I’m as poor as the old church mouse.Our scraggly tree is a disgrace.The fairy’s frayed and won’t be replaced.Instead of stockings on the chimney breastWe’ve carrier bags - Netto’s finest!The twelve days of Christmas are now ten.Gone are the pipers and the French hens!School nativities just aren’t the same.The financial crisis is to blame.Bethlehem’s all gloom and depression.There’s room at the inn – blame the recession.The three wise men travel from far and nearBearing Golden Virginia, frankfurters and beerPoor Santa - is in a sorry state!He’s so broke he’s not eaten of late.Kids run away when he comes aroundSince last week when his trousers fell down.His “Ho Ho Ho” is cut back as well.He still walks round town ringing his bellHe gets strange looks wherever he goes.Cos of the cut backs he just shouts “Ho.”He and his wife do the work themselvesSince they had to lay off all the elves.Guess what has happened to the poor reindeer?The venison pie was yum I hear!

So I’ll shut up now – I’ve had my moanSome folk will spend Christmas all alone,I’ll feast on love of family and friends.It’s not what you’ve got or what you spendBut who you’re with that counts in the end.

Joy writes poems and scripts and generally enjoys "mucking about with words". Although she has been published, she is mostly known for her presence on the performance scene in the North West area and for her work with young people.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

The week began with Joy France reminding us of the 32 years since the death of John Lennon with her very creative poem Sign of the Times. What was clever about this poem was that you read it from the bottom to the top like a ladder. A very mystifying piece reminiscent of Lennon's way of thinking.

Barry Woods' Urban Android was about the increasing Orwellian society we are living in. The news story pointed out certain stores were using hidden cameras in mannequins. Woods tells us in an almost prophetic tone that 'Soon even our dreams will be hard-wired directly to a command centre.'

On Wednesday we had Noel Loftus' I Think I Was Nine. This was a powerful poem and had us here at Poetry24 in certain discussions regarding the style of the piece. It's written in the voice of a nine year old so certain errors were on purpose and the animal imagery was shocking and powerful and highlighted the topic of terminal illness and euthanasia in such a different way.

We moved away from the seriousness for a while and used A Christmas Verse by Thomas Martin on Thursday. This was about the predicted white Christmas we're supposed to get over December and January.

On the same topic of Christmas and Winter we next had It Is A Winter's Tale by David Mellor. Here we were reminded that although it is a season of joy and cheer, there is also rising energy bills due to inflation which will affect households all over the country. A quick turn to the reality of the monetary side of Winter.

Like we began with an obituary, we ended the week with an obituary. This one was David Subbachi's Stargazer which told us about Sir Patrick Moore who died at the age of 89.

At the end of the week there was the tragic shooting at a primary school in Conneticut, USA. It was a terrible news story and we received some poems dedicated to it. First is Children Playing: Gone by David Mellor.

Born in Liverpool in 1964, David rummaged around various dead end jobs , then back to college and uni . In my 20’s first discovered poetry , starting writing and performing and have done so ever since . David on Facebook and YouTube

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

I think I was nine and a bit but not ten‘cos the hay was down when the vet cameto the barn that smelt of bleachthat inside would soon be limed againmy calf was not sucking and the harm of the yearand his ribs were actually in real life outside his bellyand I felt between my thumb and fingersthe curl on his head and I smelt his coatand heard the adults shoutingand the vet said a word I never heard beforeand he smelled porter or sweat or maybe smokeand he shouted into the Cortina boot

bastard leaves me a gun but no cartridgeI was nudged towards the door but sneaked back inside so soon I would understandthe laughing demand for a substitutethe grunt and the spit as he stood overmy calf and brought down the pickaxe so faston his curl and the blow was just excellentfor my calf had slept all morningonly his nose twitched now

soft whores like ye would lave him sufferI heard the sound of the axe again in my ears whichmade me bite my cheek to make it go away so hard that Itasted blood and wet one welly but no one sawand ran up to the fort on the hilllicked the rain on my lipand heard my uncle say very loud to the vet

you’ll not get paid for thatand looked down as the car drove offand looked down as two tall men draggedtwo shovels and my calf across the yard towards the small field(where there was no river to poisonand which wasn’t suited to turnipsand hadn’t many stones that would slow the job‘cos we had picked them summers beforeonly a place for dead animals)and begin to digso I took off my wet sock and squeezed it hardand hid it in my pocketand after that I was dizzy and spitted only a tiny sick

Yoko Ono: To the Light, Serpentine Gallery - reviewAmong a cluster of mid-Sixties conceptual sculptures is Ceiling Painting (1966), a ladder which leads to a framed sheet of paper on the ceiling, with a dangling magnifying glass, allowing you to read the word “yes”, typed in tiny letters on the paper. Alas, health and safety forbids us from doing so here.

Joy is active in the North West performance poetry scene. On January 1st 2011 my New Year's resolution was to send off some of my "page poems" to various places, It has taken me til December 2012 to get around to it!

Sunday, 9 December 2012

It hasn't been the most cheerful week in the world and the poems this week really reflect that, which is the whole point of Poetry24 and we shouldn't gloss over things.
These are all strong poems about confronting issues and, whilst they are not always "nice" to read, the skills and passion on display are very heartening.

Wind Up; Deadby David Mellor puts one of the saddest incidents of the week into perspective. Since posting the poem, we have added David's YouTube video of the poem - worth a revisit!

I am very pleased to introduce two more editors for the site. Michael Holloway - who some of you will already have had contact with this week - and Martin Bartels who will hopefully be joining us soon.

Michael Holloway

I'm the youngest of the new editors, 27 years old, and I'm from Liverpool, UK. I've been writing for about twelve years. I studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Central Lancashire and graduated in 2008 and I graduated with an MA Writing from Liverpool John Moores University earlier this year. I work in retail at the moment and I have been working there for the past four years where I've met some good friends and had a lot of ideas for writing. I write short fiction, poetry and I'm also working on a number of novels. I won first place in the Merseyside & Cheshire Writing Competition 2011. I've contributed to Poetry24 for about a year and I like how relevant and immediate the writing is and I look forward to being one of the editors.

Hello, friends! I live in the U.S. near Washington, DC, which I firmly believe despite evidence to the contrary is not the center of the universe. I have written poetry and prose, and produced various kinds of art, most of my life. I only became serious about a career as a creative professional recently--probably a midlife crisis! Clare and Martin gave me a great boost in that direction when they published my poem, "Landing", which was penned around midnight, submitted and published by 9 a.m. I was flattered beyond belief when Clare and Martin agreed to include me among the poet/editors of Poetry 24. It is a challenge to write truly relevant and news-inspired poetry, and I am convinced that Poetry 24 is an important forum with a bright future.

Born in Liverpool in 1964, David rummaged around various dead end jobs , then back to college and uni . In my 20’s first discovered poetry , starting writing and performing and have done so ever since . David on Facebook and YouTube

For me the spark of inspiration can come from anywhere at any hour - from people watching to the things I hear and read even in the middle of the night (events must mull in my subconscious before outpouring).

Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black Magnolias Journal. She is a third prize poetry winner of the Whispering Prairie Press contest. (@samantha36seto)

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

She sent her sons out every day -easier than trying to stop them.She washed the dirt and bloodstains outwhenever the water was let through.Marooned indoors,each hour punctured withflares and shockwaves,her blood-pressure rocketedwith each crash and tremor.And then, the stuttering televisionspurting into life,across the world, that green spreading."We know. We were always hereand now you are here too."Tomorrow's bloodstains will wash out,bandages will be discardedand the sky shocked to stillness.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

In days when only money matteredThey say you lived in a camper vanOn a diet of water and sandwichesWhen yuppies across the worldPlayed with stocks and sharesYou slid over rocks like a graceful lizardHanging high above, gripping tightlyWith only two or three fingers

You conquered each peakWith the body of a ballet dancerAnd the golden hair of an ancient godIlluminated by admiring shafts of sunlightSwarming up limestone cragsWith no rope and sometimes no shoes“When I do this I feel an inner peace”You told a spellbound admirer

One terrible fall ended itAnd although your life was sparedIt was never the sameDepression and alcoholismReplacing the rocky dangersThe toughest challenges yetBut you fought to overcome themLike those impossible solo climbs

Now at fifty two you are goneSomewhere in the French AlpsYour handsome sinewy limbsDisplayed once againAcross the obituary columnsOf Sunday newspapersTaken above far beyond our gazeTo continue the greatest ascent of allInto eternity.

Sunday, 2 December 2012

Many thanks to the poets who have kept the submissions coming in during Poetry24's time of transition - of which exciting news in a moment.

Not that it's been a very cheery week: do we find it comforting or depressing to dwell on the suffering of others? Either way, there's plenty of it around at all ages from Amy Barry's bleak pieta of A Boy’s Life in Gaza to David Subacchi's no-frills old soldiers in No Country For Old Men. Also disappointed this week were Noel Loftus, whose thoughts on fractured Ireland churned like his washing machine in Fell fast asleep at noon and Abigail Wyatt's nostalgic England, My England. "I did have the world on / a paper plate; / the family silver still belonged to you."

Where will it all end? Afric McGlinchey saw a bigger picture in Existential risk: while we muse on distant planets and ancient gods, the machines might just cull 'the human herd'. Not so, says James Gordon, who sees us more as the saviours, the benefactors, who can save our Threatened heritage if we choose to do so.

Talking of saving a threatened heritage, I am delighted to say that Poetry24, on the brink of being culled, has been taken on by enthusiastic new editors, all of whom have had poems published here. Here are a few words from two of them:

Abigail Wyatt

Hello, I am Abi. I was born in Essex but I am now based in Redruth in Cornwall. For many years, I was Head of English and the Expressive Arts at Redruth School but, in 2004, I retired from teaching following a period of illness. Since 2007, I have spent as much time as possible developing my own writing, mainly poetry and short fiction. I have been a regular contributor here at Poetry24 for about a year and I am looking forward to the challenge of becoming part of the editorial team

I am Hamish Mack, aged 50 mumble and living in new Zealand, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Lord of the Rings industry.
I have been writing poems for about 3 years after being eased into it by an internet friend. I have found poetry to be a great help in dealing with sudden onset unemployment and the immediacy of Poetry 24 had me hooked from the first time that I visited it. Clare and Martin surprised the hell out of me by accepting some of my poems and I will always be grateful to them. This is part of the reason that I have volunteered for this position. That and the key to the Editors Liquor Cabinet, which has not arrived yet...
I will do my best for this site and for the poets that frequent it. This is a very important time time for poets to be speaking the truth to power. Keep it up, folks.

The other two poets who have volunteered for the editorial team - Martin Bartels and Michael Holloway - will introduce themselves next week.

I'm thrilled that Poetry24 will have this new injection of energy and I hope all you poets and subscribers will give the new team all the support you can - with plenty of quality submissions and by spreading the word. I'll probably be still hovering in the background, too, like an anxious mum at the school gates when the bell goes...

Empathy with avian misfortune was overtaken by admirationfor this mighty symbol of England,an affection born of a child's curiosity,his love of Nature's gifts,his respect for its occasional brutality.

He has seen those gifts of elm, oak and ash,some of our Nation's most stalwart sentinelsstand steadfast against galeand the blight of disease and decay,has observed the transient seasons definedby landscape's changing face,bare and stern in Winter, become Summer's smile in May;but this smile, no longer a child's, grimaces,for our trees, Nature's treasures and our National heritageface the grimmest of fates.

I, who was that child welcomed to the wildwood,whom Nature beguiled,who railed against Man's intrusiveness,see Man, now, as the saviour, the benefactorwho can save our trees under assault from Nature itself,from deadlier weapons, fungal infections,that if left untreated,portend a sadder fate,though too late,much too latefor our stately elmsand scattered ash.